


Progression

by GabtheTrashcan



Category: Original Work
Genre: IDK WARNING FOR BAD, LOWKEY INCOMPLETE BUT ITS FINE SMILES :D, ORIGIN STORY WABAM, SOBS IN GENERAL I MISS RISHI!!!!!, TY FOR CREATING VT UNIVERSE HAVOK SOBS, VICTORS TOWER BABEYYYYYY, first fic, hehe anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:14:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GabtheTrashcan/pseuds/GabtheTrashcan
Summary: Take this is as a goodbye, I wish it was a see you later.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Origin

She was born on the third of July, a fact that would be celebrated in one world but is ignored in her own. 

Gabby is born between two worlds, a woman who is always out of work as the crescendo of stomach growls grows and a man who holds the world on his shoulders. He comes home with smiles that hold up the sky while his arms hold her tighter- Gabby loves her father. It’s not often that he’s home, the world is a needy one he would say, but when he is there’s no greater time. 

In the district of textiles the sun was practically invisible, great smog covered any of her rays who would attempt to shine through to the vermin crawling below, however her father had a way of sneaking some rays of his own. So when he arrives, light funnels throughout the room illuminating old photos as well as the somber colors of dresses, anything bolder was much too expensive. 

Reapings tended to be the exception.

Gabby hated reapings. 

Her mother would fuss, pulling her hair into tight braids while stuffing her small body in the most elaborate clothes she could find. It was stupid, wasting money on something that will only be used once but Mother never smiled brighter than when she twirled in the new dress and so Gabby pretends that the future stomach rumbles are worth it. 

Father bumps into her shoulders, “I hate the reapings too,” a giggle escapes her lips and how could it not? He was always good at that, ‘“but don’t tell your mother that!”

Laughter chases the family down the street when they enter the stands together, something about how she’s too young allows her to follow the backs of her parents and other adults. It dies down quickly when they’re finally packed with other families, it’s tight, with each person touching at least two others but Olive always said it was better to be with others. 

Well, a part of herself thinks it would be even better if Olive was here and so she escapes into the crowd after whispering her plans to mother who pretended to be surprised, the pair were often inseparable. 

The booming voice of the announcer leads Gabby to Olive, she always tends to be at the front of the crowd despite her quieter nature. They’re only eight but their hands silently hold one another despite the voices that could never be heard in a crowd of this size. 

It falls silent, the big man on the stage must be reaching into that big bowl,- 

“Maya!”

Colors shift like a mesmerizing kaleidoscope as one girl emerges from their safety. She holds her head high. Gabby might be too young to know what happens, but she thinks that if she was ever picked she wants to be like Maya whose hands do not shake when the camera zooms in.

At the factory later that night Olive will agree with her, she pretends like Olive doesn’t already act like Maya. Her best friend is the fastest worker in this division, never slacking or shaking when the bosses come for inspection. Every waking moment without the machinery at Olive’s fingers a book occupies the area instead, a promise to a brighter future.

In the future Olive will tell her that she’s gonna _be_ someone, she’s gonna get out of here and into the place where hunger and smog cannot follow. Gabby makes her promise to take herself along and so to the background of a bloody game they sketch apartments together. 

Gabby thinks hers look best, especially the jar of candy next to the bed. Olive disagrees but the gothic themes she uses reminds her too much of the day after reapings- they move on. 

Everyone remembers where they are when someone from their district wins. 

Maya _wins._

The square in the middle of their town is filled with people as ~~Maya~~ Snart emerges from the candy-colored smoke. Usually Gabby turns away at this point, but she doesn’t and so Snart tears through the other tribute and so district 8 _wins._

~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~

Silence fills the air.

Later at night she’ll ask her mother why no one cheered, she’s not allowed to ask that question anymore. Joey, several grades higher than her, at school will answer instead, “This isn’t a celebration, it’s a prolonged funeral.”

She doesn’t see Joey anymore. The teacher’s are much stricter with conversations during class now.

Years go by as the fabrics of age twist and turn, Olive is a constant although her hands are awfully large at the age of thirteen. To Gabby’s annoyance the other girl had also gotten a nasty growth spurt that she will never forgive, at least not until she tells her what’s wrong. 

Olive’s posture becomes constantly curled as does the common sarcastic quips that once made up the soundtrack of Gabby’s life lessen. It’s true that the other was always busy with school and “becoming someone” but there used to be time for Gabby, now Olive passes out excuses like the capitol does Tessera.

Gabby tells her mother that she stole the bread, the lie tastes better than the knowledge of an additional piece of paper in a bowl.

So after school Gabby grasps at the other’s wrist and refuses to let go. Olive bemoans this, especially since she refuses to speak (yes she’s still mad about Olive’s height, this is very valid in her eyes.) But eventually playful groans turn frantic as the excuses increase in if not quality at least intensity. Lie after lie tumbles from Olive’s lips but Gabby is stubborn- it quickly turns violent.

“Leave me alone-”

“I have schoolwork to do-”

“I hate you! I wish that I never met someone as goddam clingy as you-”

The one sided argument is fueled with punches and kicks and screams but Gabby hangs on. Has it been an hour? Maybe two? The only thing she knows is that Olive is now sobbing as the excuses slowly come to a stop.

(In one universe, when she tells this story to Jamie one night they’ll tell her that she has awful manners, and in the future she will agree.)

“I don’t want us to die.”

(Gabby will end the story before this point.)

And that’s the crux of it, they’re thirteen with death hanging above their necks at every moment. Even now the calendar her mother keeps is cruelly counting down the days until the next reaping, three weeks from now. But no mortal can fight against one as powerful as ~~the capitol~~ death, so instead Gabby collects Olive in her arms hoping that she holds the same rays as her father and makes a promise, “Look at me, Olive please-” Eventually Olive raises her face from its burrowed position, “We are not going to die and we are not going to be reaped. I know I’m forgetful and shit at keeping promises but we got this! Me and you, the biggest badasses in this entire district! Trust me nobody else stands a chance against our luck, here take this-”

A knife is passed between the two, a weak sorta blade but it was something. “My dad gave me this for hunting, but look it can be like, a safe-guard? Measure? Something to protect each other! I promise you we’ll be safe.”

Olive gets to believe her for three weeks before Gabby breaks another promise, she was always good at that. 

-

Gabby does not get to be like Maya when she can hear her mother’s shilling screams and her father’s outcries. 

Gabby does not get to be like Maya when Olive pulls out the knife given only three weeks ago as a peacekeeper pulls them apart.

Gabby does not get to be like Maya when a gunshot rings throughout the plaza.


	2. Maya

Olive does not die, it’s for this reason alone that she accepts the token her parents place into her palm. 

It’s a ribbon, the one that was often found weaved into her mother’s hair is now expertly tied in her own, she hopes that it will carry her father’s rays as well. Sitting between a family that she will never see again, not in this lifetime, her mind wanders utterly disconnected from reality. It’s ungrateful really, Gabby chastises herself, to long for the view of a friend rather than enjoy the great solar system in front of her. 

Olive does not die, but she is gone.

After her family, other friends burst into the room before time completes her rounds, useless fabrics and necklaces are thrown at her feet but they all know none of it will survive to the capitol- she takes it anyway. 

They say Olive has been thrown into prison.

A 13 year old in _prison._

She forces them to leave before time is called, the rising tension of a peacekeeper's shoulders never beckons good will. In the silence of their absence she can’t help but wonder if the peacekeepers that held Olive rose their shoulders as well. The peacekeeper on the right gestures her to follow and so she leaves purgatory, finally settling her own shoulders in the way she saw someone do so long ago. 

Prison is harsh, cold, _suicide_ \- a 13 year old is in prison. 

Self hatred crawls through the dips and crevices of her body as she begins to ramble to the soldiers leading her, “Hey Mr. Right Peacekeeper! Y’know I used to talk to your type all the time before I realized that’s kinda not okay- But I’m a tribute now!” Between the hole in her heart and the ever hungry stomach- she finds a smile. It reeks of fear. “So! Mr. Right Peacekeeper why do you walk like that? Is it a limp? Did you get hu-”

Gabby is thrown to the floor, not for the first time and the stone in her stomach promises its not the last. 

The trio of demons, all of them, make their way to the train in silence. 

Her best friend is in prison and Gabby can do _nothing._

A museum of textures, a buffet for a village, and a blank victor greets her arrival. It’s only manners to greet a person first, mother was very particular about that. Raising her head to make eye contact (a plague doctor mask was *not* was she was expecting to see,) Gabby sticks out her hand.

It hangs.

Maya is adorned in mesmerizing colors that seem to blend into one another, creating the soft image of candy colored smoke hiding the true being beneath. To be honest, Gabby thinks that without the solid mask, nothing would truly exist underneath. Or maybe that's the truth, regardless long gone are the crooked posture of one who only knows machines, traded for the straight pin of a model, or a loyal dog who preens for its owners. No movement betrays the careful statue that Maya has erected before her, not even the shake of the train that forces Gabby to grasp at the fanciful chairs nearby- 

However Gabby’s hand does not fall. 

(In her mind she sees Olive hit the floor as screams echo throughout the morning air)

However Maya does not move.

Lips long to rip open, to disrupt the swelling silence, but this, this is something more than a social situation or a first meeting- this is a test. Time watches from her perch on the wall clock as the two children stare one another down, a battle against themselves. Irony will laugh beside her, cooing at the coincidences of the future. 

Maybe if Gabby was paying attention she’d realize the all-encompassing smoke is hiding the tremors of Maya’s body and maybe if Gabby was paying attention she’d realize Maya is hiding her face for a reason and maybe, just maybe, if Gabby was paying attention she’d see the impacts of leading children to die year after year-

But she is only 13 and her best friend is in prison and so Gabby simply continues to smile, she hasn’t yet learned how to make the curl of her lips seem genuine but, there’s time.

Just not as much as she nor Olive could have ever imagined.

“Good luck, may the odds ever be in your favor.” With a turn Maya ~~flees~~ glides to the back of the train, the room becoming surprisingly monochrome in her wake.

Finally, to the cackles of irony in the background- Gabby lowers her hand. 

It’s then and only that the tsunami of reality crashes into her body, for her lungs are rocked with the waves of despair and her limbs shake due to the certain knowledge that- _she is going to die._ Nothing matters, Olive, the ribbon, even the train itself dissipates in the background of the knowledge that she’s dead, because this certainly can’t be living. Desperate sobs wracked her small frame, greedily hoarding the oxygen that her quick breaths cannot process. 

Olive would have made Maya talk, grabbing the other’s hand herself or even making her own plan with that same brilliant mind of hers. 

But Olive is not here. 

The capitol approaches. 

The buffet in front of her remains entirely untouched, the airy feeling in her gut tells her that it’s futile. Tears are still racing down her cheeks but her mind is finally distracted from it’s self-negating rambles. It’s a startlingly observation, one that should have been made much sooner, Gabby wants to _live._

She wants to see Olive again, her parents laugh alongside herself, Maya shake her hand. There’s much more noble reasons to live than for a handshake but this is the one thing that seems to light her spirit aflame.

Olive was always the fastest worker, finishing her assignments before anyone had finished even half of their own. However no one produced finer work than Gabby, long hours were dedicated to each thread and cloth, but a detail-oriented eye was useless in a factory job.

A detail-oriented eye was crucial in the capitol, let the big picture fade away (it’s useless if you can’t get there), and pay attention to the limp of a peacekeeper or the tension in silence.

Beautiful buildings whizz by as Gabby makes a promise to herself, a promise to live at _any cost._


	3. Clara

Snart emerges from the capitol’s shadows as the train slowly rolls to a stop. Nothing has changed besides a slight tilt to the mask she wears, a blank milky white that matches the empty voice she wields. The victor simply stands beside Gabby, waiting for invisible instructions only learned through years of performances. But there’s something particularly stifling about a silence in the absence of expected conversation. 

Gabby’s mind had finally quieted, however silence was an excellent conductor. 

A mentor was a tribute’s one guide to the arena, someone who entered hell and came out smiling. Everyone knew this, from the tiny children in first to the terrified teenagers in twelve. It was this knowledge that wrestled against the natural urge to fill the suffocating silence with meaningless words. Her constant self-negating dance twisted and leaped through her mind before it landed on an idea, one more attempt- it would be unfair to break her promise so soon.

Maybe in the future they’d laugh about it together? (truly in the future they can barely look at one another.) 

“Soooo, little bit of a rough start but! Who am I to judge, maybe you don’t like hands- and if that's the case, how does that- sorry i mean, i'm really sorry! Totally my fault but I really love your dress,” if it was possible the mask suddenly seemed much colder, “Anyways sorry I’m sorry that’s my fault um, haha you’re my mentor right? This is so awkward if you’re not-”

Luckily for the pair, it was to the tune of an elegant cello that they were called to leave the train. 

A beautiful woman beckoned them to follow, sheer fabrics bounced with every step as constellations twinkled between strands of purple hair. Her expression was pulled taught although the smile lines besides the matte lipstick revealed she must have been someone of a bubbly nature. 

It was only when the women had led the pair through enough dizzying turns that Snart had left, not a farewell nor gesture left the smoke as she made her departure. 

So then there was just the woman, a child, and the faceless people passed in an endless hallway. Goblins leaped around her stomach as Gabby attempted to decipher the type of silence, was it awkward? Necessary? Wanted? Her hand begins to fiddle with the ribbon given only hours earlier before the woman stops.

In this moment of ceased movement the two make eye contact. She sticks out her hand-

The woman takes it.

The woman’s name is Clara, and she is to be Gabby’s stylist. It’s between giggles that she exclaims about how fancy of a title that is, so Clara must be a Very important person. It livens up their room as conversation between the two finally begins to flow smoothly- it’s nice. 

She thinks she likes Clara, she doesn’t like what’s happening to her body. 

Every blemish is quickly removed, long gone are the pimples that warned of puberty- traded in for smooth skin that shone like the wrapper of a discarded candy bar. Every stray hair has been removed whether by blade or pain, a gentle red settles in their absence speaking of the loss of something much greater than simply hair. Every piece of herself that identified her body as the girl from district eight has been erased, replaced with something much shiner and new. 

It’s hard to pay attention to such a transformation when Clara can carry a conversation so nicely, as if those stars in her hair imbue the other with charisma much beyond her years.

But there’s something about the other that allows Gabby to speak freely, no coiled snake winds around her gut but instead it embraces the natural silences as it does the energized jokes that fly though the air. A more sinister part of herself, the one that threw out her friend’s fabrics and necklaces out the train window, wishes that Clara was her mentor instead. 

Immediately as the thought appears she throws it out- everyone has bad days! Don’t base assumptions on first appearances, another saying her mother had taught her. It would be better tomorrow, it had to be.

(Because there was no other choice.)

Clara claps her hands together, seemingly content with her work so far. Gabby tries not to cry when she says that it's only “prep”. 

But instead of another round of endless plucking and measuring, Clara simply crouches in front of Gabby, “So, my dear,” Something about the way Clara pronounces the word makes the other smile, she says it with love. “How do you feel about _candy_?”

(In the future, she’ll remember this moment with disdain and relief. A branding that will forever condemn the girl to an object for others to marvel and consume, her words forever coated in a chocolate drizzle that disguise it’s true nature. But then she’ll look around, and realize _it could be so much worse._ )

The Gabby in this moment, she loves candy. And so she is sent away with promises of an eternally sweet branding and the beginnings of a dress for tomorrow. 

Nights pass slower when there’s no stars in the sky. That’s not to say the luxurious nature of her new home was ignored, but it felt more like a padded cage than a privilege. Despite peaking around every corner, exploring wherever the peacekeepers were not- it seemed as if she was utterly alone for the night. Not Snart nor the stars were present that night.

Olive loved the stars, so in their absence a plan is formed. It resides in between her fearful smiles and trembling heart, as if that could keep it safe. 

Snart is there the next morning.

She can’t help it, Gabby smiles. Gone was the blank mask to reveal the gentle face of a child grown up too fast, not that Gabby knew that yet. In addition to the removal of the mask the fanciful pink smoke is removed for a colorful suit that seems to swirl with ever changing colors and fabrics. 

So she ignores the body language that screams _LeaveMeAlonePleaseGoAWayPleAseplEASE_ and hops onto the chair across from the women with words already leaving her lips. 

“Holy heck, is that fabric? How does that work? I’ve never seen anything like it, maybe a capitol product, maybe- well maybe you made it! I’m sure you’re a wonderful worker and fuck wait my manners-”

The victor seems to cough, ducking her head downward, breaking the fragile eye-contact they held. 

“- so yeah sorry I meant, I’m glad you’re here! To be honest, was a little worried you’d dip, but you didn’t! And-”

Snart finishes the sentence for her, “and I should’ve,” She raises her head. “That last sentence, lying is the most important skill you’ll learn here- hold onto that.” With the wave of a hand that beckons an avox forward, Snart makes her leave. 

Nothing but silence stirs in her wake, from the back Snart looks surprisingly human. 

Gabby isn’t hungry anymore. The upcoming hurricane in her stomach throws her mind to the ground, screaming about blame and mistakes as her hands fiddle with her mother's ribbon.

It fades eventually, it always does. 

In the corner of the room, a stack of dvds lay abandoned as does a pile of notebooks. In an attempt to quicken the quieting of her mind she opens the first notebook, her blood runs cold. 

She doesn’t touch the notebooks anymore, sitting quietly until Clara arrives. 

Instead she uses what Snart told her, and she _lies._ Smiles tear at the tips of her cheeks as does her limbs rip throughout the formerly quiet atmosphere. When Clara takes her back into the stylist room, it's as if nothing changed at all. Rather than notebooks filled with the ramblings of _dead_ children, photos are hung around the room as are different fabrics. The chair does not creak like the stool back at her own factory but instead it stands as straight as the other lap dogs creeping through the capitol. Perfectly.

And maybe its stupid to marvel at the forced costumes from the capitol, but the ribbons interweaved in the design only makes Gabby gasp. She’s beginning to learn it’s difficult to hate anything Clara creates. 

It’s only when the stylist is carefully placing an assortment of candies around her eyes that Gabby speaks this fact, a careful compliment hidden through her verbal love of the stars in Clara’s hair.

The smile Clara gives her tells Gabby enough, it’s infectious, and before they both know it the room feels lighter. 

But there is a ceremony to attend, so when Snart enters the room, adorned in the same pant suit although an equally colorful cape clings to her shoulders- it feels like the reaping all over again. Except instead of the cries of her mother Clara simply kisses her forehead and instead of Olive flinging out a knife Snart stalks down the hallway with little care towards the soon to be dead tribute. 

The snake in her stomach hisses in the buildup, whispering ideas about rigging and death- but Olive does not have time for possibilities. 

Eventually the pair arrive at a line where Snart promptly hands her off, they both pretend that they spoke beforehand as the stage hands shove her onto a chariot adorned with lilies and gladiolus. 

Funeral Flowers. 

She tells herself it was a simple mistake, the vomit creeping up her throat begs otherwise.

Then the horses, she didn’t even notice, begins at a simple trot. 

Then she realizes that if she squints, Gabby can make out an outline of someone in front of her, she waves to no avail.

Then there is Light.

Screams erupt in the stands, thrashing in the air as mankind makes the earth rumble.

Sweet bullets pellet the tributes, trimmed stems and lavish petals caress their bared arms as it becomes embedded in their memories. 

She smiles, it reeks of the same fear from when she talked to the peacekeeper.

The crowd shrieks louder. 

It’s stupid and puts everyone she loves in danger, so she does so anyways.

An open palm raises to the skies, as does a peace sign lie on top. 

In the area between three fingers stand in the heart of the beast.

Ignorance breeds excitement, the crowd roars louder than ever before. 

President Uther stands before them all-

They make eye contact.


	4. Rishi

The roar of the crowd can still be heard after the chariots return to their stations, the excitement is infectious. A part of herself thinks she should be trembling with fear or even puking like the district nine tribute- but electricity zig zags through her bones at the fact _she made eye contact._

Mentors and other officials start to fill into the room, Snart is not one of them.

This is not to say Gabby did not try looking for her, darting between other beings (because no one looks quite human) and ducking through arms and legs- Snart is not here. Desperately Gabby tries to hold onto the energy from earlier as the snake around her gut tightens. 

People are beginning to fill out.

Voices fill the room to its brim, suffocating in the way it blends into one. 

A hand lightly taps her shoulder.

It’s instinct to grasp at it in turn, a rock in the tsunami of activities in the room. She pretends that she isn’t disappointed when the owner of the arm carries a pair of wings rather than colorful hair. 

“Excuse me, are you Gabby?”

Se have a nice voice. It’s impossibly warm in a way that screams of the sun’s rays that cannot penetrate the fortresses' strong walls. The person seself do indeed have two great wings sticking out of their back as silks and cotton drape over ser shoulders. It’s an elegant image, one that places a shoddy taste in her own mouth, knowing that someone actually exists underneath.

And maybe she should answer the question and maybe she should stick out her hand like her mother told her and maybe she should just accept that she’s gonna die.

And maybe she answers instead.

“Yes!”

It’s practically second nature to punctuate the response with a hand movement, to impress any person here who could actually help her- but the reply comes from the tribute behind se. He cackles, bending his lanky body to clutch as his stomach.

He doesn’t have a nice voice, but he introduces himself as Narcissus. If his body didn’t seem to brace after saying such a thing, maybe she would have laughed as well. 

The angel, Rishi, says that Snart had fetched se to bring her back to the room. It’s much more difficult to stop the bitterness growing this time. 

Olive would’ve encouraged her.

Either way Rishi helps Gabby off the chariot, the funeral flowers have since been removed, and the trio sets off. She pretends to not see the victor shove Narcissus forward when he pouts at the extension of an additional person. But at Rishi’s silent insistence, he finally starts talking.

The entire time she peppers the other with compliments. Yes you looked so cool on the chariot! Woah you volunteered for that boy? I love dyed hair so yours is the best! It’s almost pathetic the way he absorbs her words like a sponge as he tacks his own accomplishments at the end of every sentence. 

She gets the feeling Narcissus doesn’t get complimented often, the conversation turns from one of strategic importance to something more genuine

In front of the pair Rishi begins to smile. 

Eventually they arrive at district 8’s quarters where two peacekeepers reside on either side of the door. The silence that springs up in the gaps of the well-fortified conversation demands that it’s time she leaves. It’s with the invisible hand of society wrapping around her throat that Gabby speaks anyway.

“So, just wanted to say thank you! This means a lot to me and, and well um, yeah no pressure! But, I really like you Narcissus and I’m not sure if, is there a manual? Is that how you make allies? Sor-”

Without any push from Rishi, he hugs her. 

“Solstices you’re kinda shit at talking? Can’t have my ally slowing me down,” She tries not to cry, “so I guess you’ll have to stick with me for training, got it?” This time she does.

Maybe it’s silly but for the first time she feels like there's a chance. Olive did always call her a crybaby but when Rishi joins them with ser wings protecting the two from the capitol’s eyes- how could she not?

When district 3 finally leaves they take their warmth with them.

It’s a long night.

There’s a knock at her door at 3 AM. If the confines of sleep had already claimed her mind the possibility of hearing the knock would be minimal but in this world her mind is eager for any distraction, so she opens the door. 

Feet stumble onto the carpet as she’s pushed to the side by a woman made of hopes and cloths. Clara brings her own version of warmth, something trenched in slick taffy but holding an ever-building eruption of molten chocolate in the center. 

In the future she’ll ask the woman why her hugs feel fake, it’s only then that she’ll realize all candy is artificial. 

But for now Clara will simply pat her head in the dead of night and laugh gently when it turns into a hug. It’s not the feeling of freedom, not like the stars who twinkle so far above, but something much warmer like heartburn occurring in the middle of the arctic. 

Later nimble hands will wrap tapes and cloth against her limbs while she talks to a being who actually responds. The conversation only halts when pages of notebooks have been filled as one last hug is given to one another- a memory only for two in a country of millions. 

For the first time, she sleeps easily.

It’s only fitting that waking up would not be. 

_It was the day of the band’s recital, free time was a rare luxury in district eight but Olive had forced her to join and so she did. Between untuned clarinets and off-tempo drum beats, the memories of another forgetful school year were formed. In truth Gabby hated the drums, the different techniques never clicked in her brain as the concept of rhythm itself was as foreign as the candy jar in the store on the corner of fifth street. But Olive had asked, something the other rarely does, and so she did._

_If there was one thing her family would endlessly tease her for it would be the deepness of her sleep, people have been killed as she slept, their screams simply merging with her dreams. On the day of the recital the morning sun does not begin her day nor does the sounds of her mother throughout the house._

_Instead it begins with the slam of a door and someone grasping at her arm, frantically pulling her out of bed. Maybe she’d be scared if the callouses did not feel so familiar._

The hands grasping at her arms right now do not feel familiar. Faux Velvet wraps around her skin rather than the well-known carpet, manicured to perfection. 

And then she’s thrown back on the bed to the soundtrack of Snart’s frantic rambles.

“What the FUCK did you do? You think it was bad before, jesus you’re a kid and you’re an _idiot_ \- There’s not a chance in hell now, not one what the fuck, _FUCK_ \- Gabby wh-”

She should be scared and maybe a part of herself is. Regardless Gabby’s eyes wander to the pinched expression of Snart, it looks terrifyingly human for a victor. In addition to this the other’s hands are thrown throughout the air rather than clenched behind her back. It’s the greatest show of emotion she’s ever seen from Snart. 

It’ll take a couple more months for that to change. 

“Snart, i, wait I’m sorry-”

“STOP saying sorry.”

“What happened? And uh- so- i mean um,”

“President Uther wants to see you.”

Her plan worked.


	5. President Uther

Later on she’ll hear that this was supposed to be a rest day, Narcissus and Cassia referencing things she had never experienced and would never mention. Instead of this rest Snart drags Gabby throughout the halls to the stylist quarters, the absence of Clara invokes another groan. 

Snart’s hair is quite pretty, dazzling colors blending into one another as she blows through each room in an attempt to find anyone. Neither of them will mention the victor’s shaking hands when they’re all empty.

Excitement, the feeling of electricity skipping between tendons and bones, it’s gone- replaced for something much more sinister.

Despair.

But- her plan it, it _worked!_ The President noticed her and, and now all she- it’s simple really, she just needs to ask, to ask a Simple question! It’s simple and he won’t say no and he won’t be mean and he won’t ask why and _Olive will be okay._

Two peacekeepers round the corner, Snart’s expression fades into apathetic watching as does her posture slouch with hands hidden in deep pockets, the perfect picture of convincing innocence. 

The statue doesn’t move when they quickly lead Gabby away, and neither does she look back. 

She hopes that Maya doesn’t get in trouble.

Memories of an erased bruise glue her lips shut for once with paintings of ghosts watching the group march on. Instead the energy lingering from electricity and a figurative snake urges her to fiddle with a ribbon, the bright fabric already faded. A more somber shade seems more fitting anyway although the voice of her mother rings throughout her ears criticizing her for such carelessness. It makes her smile.

Then there are doors, looming and overpowering, they stand forever tall. Her hands long to roam over the lumber that seems much smoother than anything at home but then _they’re opening- ___

__Hands push at her back, one of the peacekeepers leans down whispering advice that was never meant to leave their own. Then he’s gone and President Uther smiles._ _

__Her chin rises to meet the God before her, holding his gaze as the silence crepts in. There is no room for anxious snakes or mistakes._ _

__It’s not unconscious yet, the straightening of the district-renown crooked back, years of leaning over machinery vanishes in the blink of an eye as his head dips slightly._ _

__He speaks, inquiring about gentle questions as the truth slithers between both of their twisted fingers. The colossal weight of hundreds of dead children weighs at her upturned lips._ _

__But they are already dead, she is here to stop one more._ _

__Transparent words that speak of fabrics and home lead her to stretch her hand outwards- he takes it. President Uther has a firm grip that promises danger and so her smile widens. With that same widening smile she tells him about how lovely the capitol is, positively _gushing_ over the miserable architecture as does she exclaim over the surplus of explosive foods. _ _

__It’s the beginning of a turning point. Useless rambles being turned into strategic conversation just like the transition of a child into an adult. But no one cares about _when_ this happens, not in a world where stolen childhoods are paraded like awards. Later in life she’ll whisper to Feugh that everything changed after that peacekeeper leaned down, whispers plunging into her ears and mind-_ _

__Chin up. Back straight. Smile. Millions are watching._ _

__Ten minutes go by as the cycle of pleasantries continues, neither willing to make the first blow. Carefully her confidence grows and _just_ as she intends to break their careful dance, he strikes first. _ _

__“So my dear, what brought a tribute such as yourself to my humble abode?”_ _

__Such a simple sentence slices through the chinks of her armor, metaphorical blood splatters over the pristine table. His pet name feels like the poison in a glass rather than the sweetness that associates itself with Clara. Even the usage of _tribute_ drags all over her skin reminding Gabby where she truly sits in capitol society. _ _

__Her façade crumbles; she just wants Olive to be okay._ _

__“I have a friend, and she’s the best person I know, um next to you of course,” Both of them know her flattery rings hollow. “But she accidentally got into trouble and I was wondering, if it’s okay with you, could you make her be safe?”_ _

__He takes her hands once again, gently holding her gaze as he promises to help, as long as she owes him a favor._ _

__..._ _

__The feeling of dread follows her back to her room, yet that is not all that awaits._ _

__There are two figures in the distance. A lonely constellation and a colorful galaxy- there were worse things to come back to. If she squinted, Gabby thinks that she could see Snart sigh in relief before that same apathetic gaze returns. The thought that someone as cool as Snart, the girl who stood steadfast in her own reaping, is worrying about Gabby: it makes her feel _warm.__ _

__But then there is Clara crashing into her own with stars that carry her into the sky. Perhaps she’s too old to be giggling in the face of forehead kisses; yet, she’s never felt lighter. Eventually the twirling will come to an end as the stars make their back to the other side of the earth. But, if only for a moment- she feels impossible, and at the laughing of Clara in return it feels worth it._ _

__It’s true that the other leaves eventually, although the stars promise they’ll see each other soon. But then there are two broken children with a house that is much too empty for either left behind. But life is about filling these empty spaces so it’s in this quiet that Snart sighs again._ _

__Mesmerizing colors slowly turn as beautiful kaleidoscopic eyes meet her own. Snart crouches as her hands seem to inch forward before burrowing back into her own pockets. “Listen kid, tomorrow is when training starts. And,” The sentence begins to trail off, as if Snart is scared to continue, and in a way maybe she was. “And, and if you want to live I have some advice for you.”_ _

__Gabby can’t help the smile that breaks across her face, memories of abandonment are cast aside as she eagerly listens_ _

__Maybe it would have hurt less if she listened._ _


	6. Ray & Tomo

_“So here’s what you have to do”_

The training center is a rush of stimuli. Not because of its colors: the entire room, people, weapons- all were covered in a sober palette that matched those of her home the day after reapings. But the tension in the air was practically solid, a physical being weighing down on each of them.

There’s something particularly disturbing about watching a murderer before their crime.

However it's not silent, perhaps it would have been easier to focus on the rope in front of her if silence crept throughout the room, but there was noise and it was _loud._

Most prominently would be the sounds of the other tributes: pants, screams, groans, and the sharp slice of weapons sailing throughout the air- together they created the drum line, the baseline, of the orchestra. 

Yet there was the soft thrum of electricity that flowed through all of them- the will to live. Loud trumpets rang in the pings from the flora guessing booth as did the flutes gently flow in the sounds of whispered alliances.

_“Don’t trust anyone, the trainers are useless.”_

In the middle of the center stands two beings, a prince and their shadow- RayofSunshine and Olliedragon. The pair are well beyond her time but even she knows of their legacy. 

Ray more accurately sits in the middle, leaning over at random intervals as if falling asleep. The girl from ten sits besides him as she entertains his babbling. Gabby doesn’t like looking at them. Something about his artificial height or the perpetually lopsided crown refuses to sit right within herself. 

Or maybe it’s the fact that a twenty-one year old looks five. 

However anything was preferable to the way that Ollie prowled throughout the center. Kit’s footsteps ring heavily throughout the room despite the crescendo of blade against blade. One moment she’s roaming her fingers across a selection of weapons and the next kit is placing a dagger in them. 

Kit leaves just as quickly.

It’s a pretty little thing, much nicer than the one just gave to Olive so long ago. She thinks about that thing a lot. Maybe she should wish that it never existed, but instead Gabby wishes that she simply practiced with it. Two weeks is not enough time to gain the skill of the girl from one, who uses her own blade like an extension of her body. Puffy twin tails of blonde bounce in the air when she throws the knife and catches it just as eloquently. 

_”Keep your head down in training, allies only let you down.”_

The girl winks at her, twinkling golden eyes shining in knowledge of their hierarchy. A girl from one and a girl from eight, it was clear who would win between them. And that should’ve been that, a wink and acceptance-

But it wasn’t.

Instead Narcissus appears, grabs at the blonde and exaggerates a whisper into her ear. They both turn to look at Gabby again. She rushes to pretend that the dagger is the most interesting thing in the world, although that’s not too hard when a beautiful jewel lies in the middle.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it? I bet it would look even better on you, the jade matches your eyes.”

Almost as if she was there all along, the girl from one leans over Gabby’s shoulder as does Narcissus appear on the other. She refuses to acknowledge how silently the blonde appeared, a testament to her life’s work (a life dedicated to ending others.) 

Narcissus knocks his head against her own before he turns to the blonde, “Aa, now this is my colorful friend Gabby, great with all things plants trust me she’d be great for us, although not as great as me of course..” It’s clear to see what’s happening, a career campaign. 

Earlier districts always tend to cluster within one another, careers, because even if they don’t always win- they always have the highest kill count. District three is not always involved, but it's obvious by the way that blondie turns her head that she’s considering Narcissus’s words. 

It’s strategic, the way that Narcissus carefully does not meet her eyes after the casual lie. Gabby makes sure to smile twice as sweetly.

“Of course she can join us silly! We need a plant expert on our side anyway,” None of them bring up the tense silence that grew while she considered the option. As if to compensate for the absence of noise the next statement comes much louder, “I’m Cassia now let me show you how to actually hold that thing.”

Eyes fling to their trio, Gabby can practically see the perception of herself changing. No longer is she the little non important girl who’s an easy kill, but the prized lamb of the greatest warriors.

She isn’t sure what she prefers, Snart’s words still ring into her ears. 

But then Cassia grasps her hands in her own, gesturing movements and attacks as if second nature and instead of threatened or scared- Gabby feels protected.

_”And if anything at all, this above all else- make sure to stay away from the careers.”_

Another pair of footsteps heads their way, a heavy set boy as well as a stocky girl arrive in front of the trio. They loudly clap Narcissus on the back while exclaiming over Cassia’s last bow shot. 

The rest of the orchestra comes to a crashing stop, in their place the timpani, wind chimes, bass drums and more, lead a revolution galore. It screams in the face of the gentle clarinets as does it drown out the desperate trombones. 

Nobody stands in the face of a career, and she just became one of them.

She learns that the boy, although he looks much more like a man, goes by the name of Miquel. He has a large axe throw and even a larger laugh, the type that’s infectious and rings throughout the entire room. It’s on the third day of training that she whispers to him, “Solstices, I think your laugh actually woke up Ray, Miquel no don’t laugh harder wait-” It’s a rare moment of unity, for every tribute to burst into joyous laugher, even if its at the expense of the capitol’s dog. But Miquel was always good at that, he tells her it’s a certified district two trait as they tie knots with one another.

She learns that the girl, a rare volunteer from the fourth district, can kick anyone’s ass in chess. Such an event doesn’t happen often but she makes quick work of every tribute to the cheers of the other careers. It’s easy to get lost in moments like these, with Firth quietly eying down her opponent as the rest of the audience gasps and groans at every move. Gabby, she _wants_ to get lost in these moments.

She hates how she catalogues how five and ten always group up with one another as does eleven and twelve. Self-loathing runs thick as she later records how easily seven disappears into a crowd as does she note the awkward twitching of nine. No one expects to be watched during Firth’s games, it was a silent agreement between ghosts to let themselves be kids- and she’s breaking it. 

After the day of advice Snart had quickly made herself scarce, perhaps she sensed the manner in which Gabby was breaking every rule set out for herself.

So instead during the nights when the stars come out, not in the sky but in the shape of a being, Gabby confesses these sins as Clara’s hugs force themselves to the forefront of her mind. 

When Clara leaves, Gabby's fingers never leave the pages because she documents _everything._

It’s a suffocating night when she picks up the abandoned notebooks in the corner, if just to come to terms with the inevitable. 

Teddy Hans reads the front, “I'm going to die.” reads the back.

The substance of the notebooks are completely different. She isn’t sure if that’s worst.

Here is what Snart did not tell Gabby about the games.

Snart did not say that she would learn that Lillian from nine hates his name, quoting something about masculinity as the fire fumbles under his fingers. 

Snart did not say that she would learn eleven and twelve kiss one another when they think no one’s looking, it reeks not of love but desperation. 

Snart did not say that she would learn hand games from Narcissus as they await their turn on the fire station. 

It’s terribly easy to forget that they’re supposed to be killing one another when all they have are each other. Something about the gentle quiet after Mona from five breaks down into tears, the entire group deciding to be quiet for their sake, puts a violent stake into Gabby’s heart. But Firth will silently sit beside them, wiping their tears before Anika from ten rushes over and by then it’s inevitable that the entire room is soon at Mona’s side. 

When they first began silence was common even when the cheers from careers did overpower the melody of the orchestra, but as time gently prepares to leave, the arena now fills with joy and laughter from all angles. 

It’s a couple of days before the naming ceremony, Lillian slides up next her as she awaits her turn at their parkour course. He whispers about _rebellion,_ quietly mumbling into her ear that they don’t have to kill each other, no one does. She can see the tremble in his hands, it’s bold of anyone to try something, something bigger than themselves. Rather than risk an answer she takes his hand, splaying out each finger gently before laying a peace sign on top. Three fingers remain unblocked. They both know what it means.

He pulls her into a hug, “We’re making it out of here, all of us I promise to you Gab” The nickname feels sweet hanging in the air. “We’re getting away from here.” And just like that Lillian seems to spring into action across the room. 

That same electricity, the want, the _need_ to remain alive thrums brighter, stronger within everyone. But, for the first time, all of these individual lightning bolts are connecting into one another. 

She can see Lillian’s words working, eleven and twelve finally opening up to the rest of tributes as does six finally begin to smile. Even within her pack of careers a notable difference is felt when Firth corrects Mona’s mistake in their own chess game- a turning point. 

Then he tells Anika, sweet Anika who bakes cookies and bandages broken calluses. Anika who loves talking to anyone who will listen, who loves to sit by Ray and chatter on knowing he won’t listen but, “Maybe he’ll enjoy the company, it’s cruel to leave him alone.”

Olliedragon, who never strays far from Ray must have heard. 

A day goes by before a dozen peacekeepers show up to their training. 

Cassia, although Gabby likes to call her blondie when she isn’t looking, is helping her with the anatomy of a person’s neck when they storm in. Large guns and shields shine in the light, reflective in the way that it blinds all who dares to look them in their eyes. 

The manner in which every single tribute stops what they were doing is immediate as is the realization that they never stood a chance. 

There’s no announcement, no verbal reprimand for a crime that would have got them killed back home. Instead they flood into the trapping section of the center, quickly flinging Lillian into the center of their group.

No one makes a sound.

Lillian who confessed his fears of socializing to her one afternoon and Lillian who has dreams of sewing fabric and Lillian who had hope. They begin to take him away although they can all hear his _screams_ of protest.

It’s when the peacekeepers fight back that Gabby takes a step. The hand tightly gripping at her arm is immediate, Cassia is shaking her head. 

Lillian stops screaming- she takes another step.

Cassia’s reaction is immediate, tugging her entire body to be against her own in a cruel mockery of the hug Lillian had given her just days ago. It’s an immediate reaction to flail against the hold, although her lips refuse open- but everything quiets when Cassia whispers softly.

“Back at one,” Chin up. Back straight. Smile. Millions are watching. "I was hand picked as a career from the age of five. They would put us into little groups, just like this one... Let us bond for a week before we never saw each other again.” It’s a rare occasion for Cassia to speak of her home, even rarer for her to discuss her time training.

But now she maintains that same light tone as she continues. “We fought back once, desperate to have friends, people to trust but, _just_ like this one,” Her tone shifts, darker, lower, sinister. “It was destined to fail.”

Her heart skips a beat, Lillian is long gone. 

“I was the only one who survived that group, but if you keep your mouth shut maybe it could be you, and maybe-”The tirade is interrupted as Gabby is tugged away by someone much stronger. 

Narcissus stands at her shoulders.

They don’t exchange words, not now at least but the training center returns back to it’s silent melody. Nobody talks anymore. 

Eventually another long day of silence goes by, Miquel signals a thumb up when she finally hits her target with a dagger. 

Another day, Lillian does not appear.

Then it is the day of the naming ceremony. 

Clara twirls her around in the stylist room, somehow snagging a radio where pop songs neither of them listen to fills the air. It’s the happiest she’s felt in days, but that always seems to happen when Clara is around. 

Her waist is wrapped in peppermint themed ribbons as is her thick hair straightened into pigtails. 

The lights are blinding as she steps onto stage, a makeshift pit surrounded by a screaming _ignorant_ audience.

President Uther looks her in the eye, she knows that this decides her fate. Has she returned to a side that she can no longer return from? Or will she return back to his barbed wires and loving arms?

Shrieks rip into the air as she flashes the brightest smile she could.

The microphone feels heavy in her hand.

She misses Olive.

“TheGabisBack!”


	7. Kenny

It feels like the beginning of the end. 

Snart sits her down and outlines the rest of the schedule: tribute scoring, the interview, and then the game. It feels final. In the silence that follows Gabby’s hands itch towards the ribbon her mother (and wow hasn’t it been a long time since she thought about her family) gave her. They never get any further than hovering above her lap, Cassia had been training the “weakness” out of her. 

The occasion of Snart reaching out, if just to relay a schedule, is incredibly rare. Days of training have strengthened Gabby’s bones, but the prospect of a simple conversation with the other relights the snake that she thought was dead. 

But there’s simply too many questions to remain silent, things that Clara would only deflect from, things that only a victor could know- things that she needs. 

When she speaks her voice no longer wobbles nor does she avoid Snart’s blank expression. “You mentioned the scoring, what should I do?”

The waiting is the worst part. 

Twelve children are kept in a room as they’re called to never return. It’s a weird feeling, knowing that they’re never to see this room again and this room will never see them- not until the next group. Gone were the jokes and reassurances that once brightened the air, only a slick heavy weight bore down on them all. None of them mention how Lillian is still missing. 

A man enters the room. It begins.

Cassia sends a blinding smile before she leaves. If she wanted, notes could be taken on how Mona and Anika drift towards one another or how Miquel pulls Leo (a scrawny boy from six, his tufts of hair seems to laugh alongside his body) into a surface conversation about trains. But Gabby is nervous and Gabby is scared and so tucking her body into Firth’s while Narcissus chats is much more preferable. 

Miquel is called next, Cassia does not reappear. 

The duo of twelve and eleven sit beside Leo in Miquel’s absence, the room seems to quiet even further. It’s interesting how the careers can control the room in such a formidable way, Firth’s strong gaze sweeps around the room. Only the loud voice of Narcissus rings as he practically makes conversation with himself, the gentle tremor of his hands betrays the loose tone of his voice. 

He leaves next and then Firth- the change is palpable. 

The eruption of noise, the people gathering together in small groups, the laugher and jokes and _light._

This, this is dangerous. Most of all are the whispers. 

None of her notes accounted for this, the careers were powerful but more so than this they were likeable. Miquel would spend hours regaling other’s tales of homes (he’s much more than the dopey smile he attempts to present) as would Firth play games against anyone who steps up (as the days go on that group becomes narrower and narrower.) Blinded by her own opinions, the facts stare directly in Gabby’s face.

It’s a terrible feeling, having to choose who lives and dies in such an innocent moment. 

But Narcissus smiles behind her eyes and so she loops her arms around Eleven and whispers a secret. 

“Did you know Cassia always strikes with her left?”

The rest of the room slowly turns towards her, maybe if she was as smart as she claimed Gabby would notice the camera turning as well. 

More and more tributes begin to filter out but the ones who remain are enraptured with the lies that blossom from her lips. She weaves tales about non-existent limps and a false empathy for children (“That’s why they let me stay around!”) 

“What weapons does Miquel use?”

“How does Firth feel about the other careers?”

“Does Narcissus have any weaknesses?”

Hesitation wraps around her throat at the last question. It’s all fake but, the very _notion_ of betraying her first friend in this hell makes her breathe stutter. Twelve (they go by Theia and it makes Gabby sick) narrows their eyes, the door opens.

It’s time. 

Her head is held high when she enters the room, one of the gamemakers catches her eye with a gentle wave. The game maker has a nice smile.The hand is quickly shoved down by those beside the woman, but if Gabby squinted maybe she’d notice the nametag of ‘Kenny’ on her chest. 

But there isn’t time to spare for such niceties. Another balancing act resumes, she can’t be *useless* to the careers (Cassia’s moment of hesitation at the start of it all still haunts her all) but she cannot be strong.

She begins with the weapons, maneuvering into different forms while slicing periodically. The discussion above her seems to intensify, it does not involve her own name.

After five minutes she switches over to plants, praying that they do not notice how her hand shakes. The machine beeps out a 75% and the solemn smile Kenny gives her makes her _shake._

There’s five minutes left, not one game maker meets her eyes.

Gabby changes the plan.

Her feet reach the center of the room effortlessly as her eyes bore into the glamorous box that the gamemakers reside in. 

It takes a couple moments, Kenny seems to drag the other gamemaker’s attention away from their own gluttony to stare at the ghost below.

Then Gabby begins talking. 

She speaks of life and she speaks of death. Ghosts of victors dance among her words as she details plans upon plans upon _lies._

RayofShunshine smiles among her plan of artificial weakness as does FeughirbciligucmmikUstcuEMNLJJTHRUGVU twirl around ~~her~~ their greatest advantage of age.

It’s a devious plan, the one that sleuths throughout the room, tiny shadows being the only betrayer of any movement as the carefully controlled room boils over with tension.

A ring slices through her last stand, fifteen minutes is up. 

The grandeur fades from her body leaving a thirteen year old girl in its place. The game makers instantly turn away, it’s impossible to tell if she’s made an impact behind their gilded notebooks and glasses.

Pushing away the disappointment and fear, she moves to make her leave.

The door opens.

A body crashes into her own.

It’s Lillian.

Her mind jumps from how to why to _shit._ Already the loud booms of a peacekeepers boot is steadily approaching. He’s _sobbing,_ tears wiping away makeup to reveal deep hues of purples and green inscribed in this skin. A constant stream of words seems to rush out of his mouth as he holds his own body close against her own. 

The words, agonizing in pitch and tone are much too fast to catch for her untrained ears, but they only increase in intensity when the peacekeepers finally arrive at the duo. Lillian holds her hands between their bodies as he _shrieks_ and pushes them both to the ground. 

Gabby slips the piece of paper away.

Tremors capture her body, all empowering and making her limbs feel like jelly, powerless to stop the peacekeepers from tearing Lillian away from herself. To the ringing of a sharp slap in the air she is thrown to the ground (and if she thinks about it, doesn’t this feel familiar?)  
(It does.)

Everything hurts. Lillian is screaming again but the ghost of Cassia’s voice freezes her in place. Her ears feel like they’re the nails on a chalkboard as does her head pound relentlessly. A stomp, a kick, a hit, more and more shrieks _ring _as the peacekeepers *wail* onto her friend, a _child.___

__She doesn’t realize that she’s screaming as well until the door slams on her face._ _

__It’s only after hours of sobbing into her pillow that she’ll remember the piece of her paper,_ _

__They’re in a world designed to kill them both but seeing it written so plainly, even about someone she barely knows, (Lillian looked at her like she’s the first person he’s seen since that fateful day, it’s not hard to imagine that she was) _hurts_ in a way that her mind didn’t account for._ _

__What sort of situation makes a being cling to someone three years younger without a greater relationship then a happy hello?_ _

__The answer stares directly in her face._ _

___"I’m going to die", reads Lillian's note._ _ _

__

__It’s fear._ _


	8. Khio

The game makers give her a four.

Clara dances to the tune of deadlines and sparkly hair brushes. Gentle steps, as if the woman was dainty skipping across crystallized water, skates her body across the small room. Despite the constant bangs signaling the ever decreasing time, her room seems removed from the bloodlust of the capitol’s prying eyes. Peaceful even.

The mesmerizing lull of conversations flows between the floor gaps. It’s easy to fall into, letting the sweet ring of a cello fill your thoughts instead of the abrasive worries of the future.

But the worries are persistent and they do not like to be forgotten.

Matching the soft rhythm that the stars had set out, the line of abhorrent warnings march into a child’s ear. Performance anxiety twirls at the same time as Clara and it feels as if nothing has changed at all.

Eventually the child shaped stage is ready for its first performance. Glazed caramel puddles in her hair while gumdrops perfectly line the edges of the curtain. The line between human and _performance_ begins to blur. 

Maybe a galaxy, bright enough to see but still cold in its irreversible distance, will kiss the top of a stage pretending that it could change anything. Maybe it already has.

But the child is a stage and the audience is _hungry,_ there is little time for kisses and soft caresses when the colorful butcher arrives. Destroyed cloths and distressed fabrics hang from her shoulders as if the beings' anger had turned to herself. But the butcher is cold and none of this anger slips through and the galaxy’s light finally matches its distance and so the child is led away. 

There is a herd of sheep at the door. 

Eleven little lambs wait in one quiet row. The stage’s personal butcher (except when she looks again they are no longer a butcher but a child just like she) has already made her personal leave. 

Down the self-enforced line of demise, awaits an angel. Se are covered in holy whites and golds that seem to betray the storm of emotions in their brow. But by their side awaits a prince and when Narcissus smiles the fog lifts if just for a moment.

Gabby _breathes._

A stage exhales in her place.

The axe has made its first move. A sheep, because they are nothing more, covered in molten yellows and red disappears from the line. Cheers from an audience that refuses to think rings out. It’s overwhelming, if just for a moment.

Someone climbs onto her own stage and pushes back the curtains. Mother warns of dangers and monsters, but mother did not prepare her to face one on her own. A cannibal looks out onto the platform. 

They have a beautiful smile. The line shortens as another chop metaphorically slams down. 

A hand, it’s covered in black and blood while its long _sharp_ nails rattle against the hardened floor and- it motions to take a breath. But stages do not breathe and so neither does the child and it’s a fitting picture to have a monster be the warmest thing in a room.

Another chop, another lamb, another child. 

(Another dead.)

The Cannibal continues to motion for breath as if the child is human and another monster on her right (their name is Caori and they are only sixteen looking like an eldritch horror) clutches her hands as well.

Chop.

It’s soft, the lullaby that slowly creeps out of Bee’s sharpened teeth. A hint of trello from a boy who is much more dead than alive compliments their low tones. It’s an agonizing tune, impossibly slow- but isn’t that what stages were made for?

Two more little lambs prance out of the stage. If someone was to be listening, which she is not, maybe they would hear the desperate sobs between polished smiles.

Capri releases her hand, or at least that’s the only explanation that can account for the sudden drop in her chest even though Bee continues to breath and the Cannibal continues to sing. 

The solemn tune is reaching a crescendo, as if a conductor screams warnings of an end that has already passed. Crashes of the percussion and the shrieks of the flutes collide with one another in a fiery ending.

A Cannibal hugs a stage and a child hugs back.

_Chop._

It’s time for the second act of tonight. 

A wave of light welcomes her to a forbidden waltz.

Khiori, a forest of mysteries wrapped in one multi-colored suit. 

Maybe if they were to win on any other year the man would know rest, would know faith- would know _love. ___

__The desperation that leaks into his painfully crafted expression tells of the truth._ _

__Their bodies glide before the audience, slow uncertain steps are developed into one strong march into hell, Khio’s resulting smile tells her that it is a good thing. In another life their waltz could be as joyous as the personas they fling about but this is a world where your heart is the truth and your blood is full of lies._ _

__It’s a beautiful dance. Languid steps that once spoke of beauty and grace begin to dissolve into something more rapid, a high kick that arouses gasps from the crowds as do their ever increasing hand motions result in a louder applause._ _

__Pain stangingly slow music has turned into a jolly tune that the audience cannot help but join. The stage looks out into a sea of nobodies and pretends it's the world. It is fitting, that this is where she slips._ _

__Intricate footwork began to layover into a twirl and- maybe he was the one to drop her, asking such a loaded question; and maybe she was the one to fall, the moment of hesitation speaking louder than any of her words thus far-_ _

__But there is no one here to pick up after the performance’s mistakes, Olive is in prison after all._ _

__Khio tries, god do they try just as they have for the ghosts before her. But she is not Maya who’s unsettling nature only drew the audience closer and she is not Bee who’s fabricated claws turn the eyes of all who are near._ _

__She is Gabriella, a child who made a mistake._ _

__Maybe in reality it was truly just a moment of hesitation before answering, or maybe it was the decision that changed the course of her future._ _

__But the music has dimmed out and the stage has reached her purpose and she is pushed off of it._ _

__An angel and a prince await her arrival, the butcher is nowhere in sight._ _

__Rishi will stand back as Narcissus begins to move forward, “How do you think it went?””_ _

__Her heart replies with memories of a soft tune that brought joy despite the undercurrent of danger, a butcher whose actions plants the seeds of future regrets, a lullaby sang to monsters in the making, and a waltz that crashed in it’s fervor._ _

__Her mind, it replies with _nothing,_ because to her that was all that it had._ _

__

__..._ _

__

__“I think it went alright.”_ _

__

__A lie had never felt so bittersweet._ _


	9. GO!!!

No birds sing throughout the night, as they haven’t through all the others. Regardless, a full night of sleep seems impossible when the Games start the next day. Gabby’s mind jumps between scenarios and plans, ideas of an arena with flames from the inferno or deep under the earth like years prior. 

But most of all, she thinks of this bed.

How many ghosts slept in this same bed, just to be murdered the next day?

Will the one after remember her, or will the confines of this brief existence be locked in notebooks and pens… it’s a sobering question. 

She thinks of her family. Her mother would never recover from this death but the guarantee of remembrance does not soothe her spirits. Images of an apathetic town phasing past her mother’s shrieks simply reminds her of the sun’s rays in dusty rooms. Her father would move on, she only hoped he’d take his wife with him.

Her mind stutters to a stop at Olive. 

There’s a knock at the door. It’s become practically a ritual for Clara to come into her room at night, disrupting the swarm of thoughts for something much sweeter in between. It is not Clara who is at the door.

Instead four sweaty teenagers tumble into the room collapsing in a pile on the floor. 

Loud voices fill the air, Miquel’s laugh is infectious and the pile rumbles with its laughter. Firth sends Gabby an apologetic look before having the foresight to close the door.

“My apologies… it took use a while to get here, peacekeepers, mentors, I’m sure you’re awa-”

“Mind the stick n’ Firth’s ass, Cassia has these camera structures down solid so-”

“First off all Miquel, Cassia fuckin tripped and I was the one to save us all, obviously, and Ga-”

The multitude of voices blend into one but for once the noise is not overwhelming. Warmth surrounds Gabby on all sides as the group slowly moves to the bed that was once too big. No one decides to explain how or why they’re here and so she doesn’t ask; anyway, it’s hard to be focused when Firth curls up in her lap and Narcissuses runs soft hands through her hair.

They’re children being trained into murders, but they’re also family- her family.

Somewhere in the distance, because her mind is simply not here, sounds of faux arguments concerning the density of metal (it’s the first time she’s heard Cassia sound truly passionate) float gently in the air.  
For the first time since she’s entered the capitol, Gabby _sleeps._

When the artificial light snaps to attention, there is no one else left but herself.

A brief moment of privacy is given as she dresses in an outfit that has been forgotten since she first came. Monotone greys are tucked into one another as she hastily pulls her hair into a low ponytail, maybe when this was over she’d ask Narcissus how to hang it high. 

It’s a nice thought, if useless. 

Gabriella cannot afford useless thoughts.

An old friend slithers around her gut as does a ribbon lay dormant in her hair. The pair of peacekeepers, one of them has a scuff on his boot, shoves her into a transparent cylinder and tells her to wait, and maybe that’s the worst part. Emptiness encourages the hatchling to climb up into her throat _squeezing_ any chance of oxygen her lungs desperately burn for.

There’s dust floating throughout the air, ghosts smile at her from just beyond the tube, and it takes any remnant of stardust in her bones to not tug the ribbon from her hair. 

A door opens, this time Clara is there. 

All that separates them is glass but the chasm has never felt greater. A tribute and a stylist; a stage and a star; a ghost and a being- Gabby and Clara. She thinks of long nights whispering made up secrets because it felt fun to just _pretend._ Sweetness would gently float in the air as memorized poems filled the gaps in between. Teary hugs and forgotten gossip, all of it is locked within the mind of a universe who’s always been too far. 

Too far, sobs still crash into one another in her hollow prison but Clara raises her hands to the ravine and Gabby quickly motions to do the same.

If just for a moment, it’s nice to pretend that instead of the glass it’s the warmth of another’s forehead on her own that whispers goodbye. 

( ~~Gabby decidedly does not ask where Snart is.~~ )

Rumbles begin to erupt from the ground beneath her feet.

She thinks of a girl who would have screamed. A girl who would’ve clawed her way out of hell itself, a girl who could’ve _died._

An apathetic cold fills her body instead.

Distantly, the buildup of softened drums does as well.

Her heartbeat is the base drum and her breath is the accenting wind, that is her solemn theme as she leaves the one person who cared for her in the overwhelming inferno. 

Sunlight streams in as the all encompassing baseline fades in its strength. Eleven familiar faces challenge her calculating gaze. The arena this year, it’s something out of faded history books. 

Gabby stares out and rows of suburban homes stare back. It’s a neighborhood, lush greenery dazes on top of picket fences while stray cats scamper around the centered “club house.” A countdown from 60 begins.

Mona refuses to catch her eye from the right. Slender arms are wrapped around the sixteen year olds body, trembles run their course just under the sleeve of skin.

_50_

Miquel winks from left. He raises a one, their symbol for center, accented with a head nod. It wouldn’t be the games if the careers didn’t go to the cornucopia. 

_40_

And she’s one of them. Strong white walls tease of the treasures behind the glass doors. Cassia is the fastest, she should be stopping the bold before they get to the weapons while the rest loots. 

_30 ___

__B O O M_ _

___20_ _ _

__She can’t breathe. A note, he gave her a note and-_ _

__He knew he was going to die. The capitol leaves nothing to chance._ _

___10_ _ _

__~~I’m going to die.~~ _ _

__Her brain can no longer tell the difference between Lillian’s voice and her own._ _

__**GO** _ _


End file.
